


Eventide

by ChaseTheFreakinStars



Category: Trollhunters (Cartoon)
Genre: Blinky just wanted a nice retirement and a friend and look what it got him, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Culture Shock, F/M, Gang AU, Human AU, Libraries and guns and gangsters oh my, M/M, Multi, Unresolved Romantic Tension, endangerment of minors, established platonic relationship, human!AU, mentions of past trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-14 10:10:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9176263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaseTheFreakinStars/pseuds/ChaseTheFreakinStars
Summary: At age 55, Blinkous “Blinky” Galadrigal has already met all his life goals. His work in law (and one short, ill-fated stint into personal training) has left him a sizable retirement fund with which to open his own private-owned library and still live with a modicum of white-collar comfort. Until one of his few regular customers accidentally pulls him head-first into a world he’s only ever heard about in court.EDIT: KIND OF BACK?





	1. Oakwood Library Gets a Little More Business Than it Bargained For

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy, this is going to be an adventure. This is my second published fic ever so I'm sorry if anything comes off as awkward style-wise. As for the story, I was concerned it might be a little early in the fandom's existence for a human AU fic but then I remembered that there's a reincarnation fic already so I think I'm good.

###### 

He always comes by at four.

Blinkous peers curiously over the spine of a lengthy tome on Scottish history as a burly man carefully edges his way between the glass front doors of the little library. The doors had been left propped open specifically for this customer once it was brought to Blinkous's attention that French door-handles and hands the size of baseball mitts didn’t quite mix. As an added bonus, the weather had been on the cooler side recently, which meant having the doors open reduced the need to keep the air conditioner running. 

Once safely through the double doors, the man turns to Blinkous’s cluttered little desk and offers a lopsided smile with accompanying nervous wave. Blinkous lowers his book to return the gesture with a blithe smile of his own. Contented, the man lowers his arm and shuffles dutifully into a softly-lit corner where he purposefully selects a medium-sized book from the shelf before settling into an antique armchair. 

As long as he’s been coming, the man has never checked out a single book. Blinkous knows his name, of course. The first time the man set foot into the little library, eyes full of nervous curiosity, Blinkous had dutifully introduced himself. Admittedly, his rather sudden salutation from his barely-visible corner had scared the living daylights out of his customer, but the man quickly caught himself and left Blinkous with the name Arthur. 

They'd spoken often since then, enough that both parties would hazard to refer to the other as a friend. Their familiarity was probably the main reason Arthur saw fit to drop by Oakwood Library daily to read rather than take books home with him. Today’s selection was a continuation of yesterday’s: _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_. He’s almost done with the book, and Blinkous finds himself aimlessly wondering what he’ll choose next. 

At four twenty, there’s a rather loud knock on the open glass doors.

Correction, there’s the loud sound of a baseball bat going through the glass door, and a rather lot of shattering afterwards. Blinkous in on his feet the moment it registers in his mind and he immediately begins fishing blindly in his pocket for his phone. He almost has 911 dialed when a large hand clamps over the phone and wrenches it from his grasp.

Blinkous watches in stunned horror as his phone disappears into the man’s hand with a sickening crunch as the device is reduced to glass shards and lumps of plastic. Horror turns steadily to dread as his gaze travels from the intruder’s closed fist, up his tattooed arm, and lands on sharp gold eyes set deep in a scarred face. It’s the tattoos that really set him on edge, though. He can name every case he’d defended against men with tattoos like that from memory.

_'Gumm-Gumms.'_

Blinkous grimaces slightly as the name springs to mind. It was such a deceivingly stupid name for such a violent gang. And now one of their idiots had quite literally broken down his door. 

"I-," Blinkous cuts off with a shaky cough before steeling himself as much as possible, "I’m going to have to ask you to leave, sir. You’re not – you’re not welcome here."

The man’s answer comes in the form of the hand holding the remains of his phone slamming down on his desk, shards of phone flying left and right. Blinkous jerks back in surprise, but stills when the golden-eyed man levels the bat at his chest.

"That’s big talk for someone so small, gramps." The man leers at him. "So, allow me to propose a counter offer. How about you shut up," A tap with the bat, "sit tight," Another, rougher tap, "And I’ll only break one of your arms when this is over. _Comprende_?"

The man is so absorbed in threatening Blinkous that he doesn’t even notice Arthur’s fist flying at his face.

A left hook from a man Arthur’s size should have taken the stranger down, but instead it just knocks him back, albeit with the satisfying snap of a breaking nose. The man recovers from the blow with a simple shake of his head that sends droplets of blood flying across the room. He turns to Arthur with a grin and takes up his bat in both hands. "Ah, see? Here’s the man of the hour now."

Arthur shuffles carefully to place himself firmly between Blinkous and the intruder. "No threaten Blinky, Bular." His English is broken, but understandable. The now-named Bular replies by giving the both of them an unnerving, bloodied smile. Most men would have had the decency to look at least a little wary after being on the receiving end of a hit like that, but Bular just looks eerily pleased. "Of course not, Aaarrgghh. It was only a bit of fun." He wheedles in a mock-soothing tone. Arthur growls lowly in response, shoulders tensing at Bular’s response. 

"Not Aaarrgghh. Aurthur now." He grunts, eyes locked steadily on Bular’s. Bular inclines his head slightly in response. "Alright. Arthur, then. I’ve come with a message for you."

Arthur’s eyes narrow slightly. "Message?"

"Father wants you back."

Arthur’s reaction is as instantaneous as it is violent. A wooden step-stool is swiftly liberated from its place on the floor and hurled full-force at Bular’s face. Bular barely raises his bat in time to block it as the wood shatters against metal, sending sharp splinters flying artfully in all directions. Blinkous ducks behind his desk with a shriek as wood shards clatter across it. He can’t see the fight anymore, but the sound of fists against flesh and the miscellaneous chorus of pained grunts, growls, and yelps leaves little of the fight to the imagination. 

Blinkous takes the moment of temporary safety to rack his mind for a way to help his larger friend. But what could a short, middle-aged librarian do against a member of one of California's most notorious gangs?

Blinkous is still mulling over ideas when someone’s body collides with the desk with a grunt, pushing it back a few inches and causing something cold and metal to bump the back of his head. Blinkous scrambles blindly behind him for a moment to free the object from the duct tape securing it against the underside of the desk. After freeing it, he takes a moment to look it over.

The .45 pistol is just as old and dirty as he remembered. He’d found it inside a compartment in the desk back when he'd purchased it.

He doesn’t even know if it works. 

Luckily, it doesn’t need to work to look threatening. Blinkous takes a moment to steady himself before sliding out from under the desk and hauling himself to this feet with minimal shaking. The gun is transferred to the correct grip in his outstretched hands as he desperately recalls the vestiges of the gun safety course he’d taken years ago. When his posture as convincing as he can make it, he levels the muzzle at Bular with shaking hands and pointedly clears his throat.

Both of the men before him turn their bruised and bloodied faces to him at the same time. They had stopped fighting for a moment to mutually catch their second wind. Two pairs of eyes widen for different reasons at the sight of Blinky holding a gun. Blinkous swallows roughly and re-adjusts his grip on the pistol slightly.

"Get out."

Bular raises currently empty hands in mock surrender and gives Blinky a condescending look. "Sure thing, Pops, but how’s about we put down the gun-," Bular makes to take a step forward but stops when Blinkous cocks the hammer back threateningly. 

"I said, get the hell out of my library!" He snarls in a mixture of fear and anger, gun beginning to shake slightly in his grip.

"Blinky…" Arthur rumbles, slowly lifting a hand in a soothing gesture, but a sharp glance from Blinkous has him quickly backing down.

"You," Blinkous growls, returning his attention to Bular, "Are _not_ welcome here. I will not stand for you barging into my establishment, destroying my property, and threatening my customers. So I suggest you leave. Now. Before I'm forced to make you leave."

Bular looks surprised, and a bit wary now. "C'mon Pops, I'm just here for your pal 'Arthur' here. If you just let me-,"

Bular is cut off again as Blinkous raises the gun in one -relatively smooth- motion towards the ceiling and firmly squeezes the trigger.

For a moment, it doesn’t seem to work. Then the pistol lurches to life, a single bullet flying from the muzzle and burying itself in the plaster above them with a bang. The reaction in the men before him is instantaneous. Bular books it out into the street, nearly tripping over himself in order to get as far away as possible, while Arthur flinches and covers his head with his arms to avoid being hit by hunks of plaster. 

Blinkous remains where he is for a moment, smoking pistol still raised above his head as he watches Bular high-tail it down the street. In the distance, the wail of sirens can be heard. _'Neighbors must have called the police.'_ He thinks numbly as he brings the gun down onto the desk with a thunk.

Blinkous stares at the smoking pistol in his hands for a moment longer, lost in thought, when a large hand settles unexpectedly on his shoulder. He flinches violently away in response, dropping the gun as if burned by it. Arthur flinches too, pulling his hand away from Blinky with an apologetic look. "Sorry."

Blinkous shakes his head in response, offering his friend a watery smile before reaching out to pat the still raised hand. "It's alright, Arthur. I'm just a little high strung at the moment." A pause, Blinkous looks away from Arthur and bites his lip. "You should get going, though. I can explain things to the police just fine on my own. I don't want you arrested over a situation that wasn't your fault." 

Arthur nods silently and carefully draws away from Blinky. "Blinky stay safe, right?" He asks, attempting to catch Blinkous's eye before he leaves.

Blinkous returns his gaze to the larger man, forcing another weak smile. "Only if you promise to do the same, my friend. It wouldn't do to see you on the evening news so soon after all this."

Arthur returns his smile sadly before turning away fully and making his way to the back of the library, where a back door leads into an alley. Blinkous quietly watches him go, continuing to stand silently even as police and paramedics arrive and ask him what had happened and if he'd been hurt. Distantly, he can hear himself diligently answering their questions, but on the inside, he can't shake the feeling that whatever it was that was going on, it was far from over. 

And he's been caught right in the middle of it.


	2. Child Endangerment is Still a Felony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I didn't actually expect to get feedback even though I asked for it! Thank you all so much for your comments and kudos!

###### 

By the time Blinkous is allowed to leave the police station and return home, it’s already long past eight pm. He’s so tired, it takes him three tries to unlock his front door with shaking hands. To top it off, he’d had a light lunch, and had missed dinner entirely (with the exception of a cup of instant coffee at the station). By now, he’s surpassed ‘tired’ and ‘hungry’ and gone straight to ‘pass out on the couch and worry about food tomorrow’. 

To say the evening had been stressful would be a goddamn understatement.

Blinkous lets out a tired groan of relief as the key finally catches in the lock, allowing him to shoulder his way through the door and into the cool quiet of his home. He slams the door roughly behind him, only barely remembering to lock the deadbolt before stumbling into the sitting room.

The couch in the sitting room is an ugly shade of gold-green corduroy, but never has a piece of furniture looked so inviting. Blinkous doesn’t even bother to kick off his shoes before collapsing onto the rumpled upholstery and passing out, keys dropping from his hand to the floor. 

In his haste to get some rest, he doesn’t notice that the security system has been disarmed.

 

\---

 

Blinkous groans as sunlight hits his face. He lies still for a moment, willing himself to fall back asleep regardless, but to no avail. Huffing a drawn-out sigh, he rolls over and buries his face in a pillow while attempting to draw what he can grab of a blanket over his head. 

_‘…Hold on a second.’_

Blinkous sits up in bed sharply, now more decidedly awake. He flails wildly for a moment, desperately trying to disengage himself from the tangle of blankets. His efforts only succeed in rolling him off the bed and onto the floor, where he lies quietly for a moment. Once he’s regained his bearings, he viciously kicks the remainder of the blankets from his legs and scrambles to his feet.

How on earth had he gotten from the sitting room to his bedroom?

A quick pat down reassures him that he is, indeed, still in his clothes from yesterday at least. But the situation is still unsettling. Had someone broken in? Just to move him? If someone had broken in, had anything been stolen? Blinkous briefly considers calling the police, but quickly recalls how he’d been… _relived_ of his phone the day before.

He lingers beside the bed a moment longer, lost in thought, before his stomach loudly reminds him that he had _not_ eaten enough yesterday and should rectify the situation immediately. Priorities soundly redirected, Blinkous carefully makes his way to the bedroom door and sticks his head out into the hall. A quick glance to either side confirms that nothing looks out of the ordinary, so he shuffles into the hall and heads for the kitchen. At the end of the hall is a dividing wall, separating the sitting room from the kitchen. As Blinkous reaches the wall and begins to make the turn into the kitchen, he casts a passing glance into the sitting room. 

For a moment, he can’t quite register what he’s seeing.

There, sprawled across the corduroy couch’s vile red twin, is Arthur. The younger man is sound asleep with a yellowing bruise under his left eye and gauze wrapped around his knuckles. Having been caught off guard mid-step, Blinkous lowers his foot back to the ground and turns to face the surreal sight fully.

“Oh! You’re awake.”

Blinkous lets out a terribly un-manly shriek and whips around to face the person addressing him. A boy no older than 17 is standing in his kitchen, holding a plate of toast in both hands. If Blinkous thought having Arthur asleep on his couch was surreal, this was an out-of-body experience. The boy blinks at him a moment before holding the plate out. “Toast? I would have made something more filling, but your kitchen is a wasteland.”

Blinkous stares at him. Opens his mouth once. Closes it. Opens it again, and then, in a flat tone, asks: “Why is there a teenager in my kitchen?”

Even though the question was obviously wasn’t directed at him, the boy answers anyways. “I’m James Lake, Jr. Call me Jim. I’m a friend of Arthur’s.” 

Blinky is silent for a moment before he forces his brain to work. “Galadrigal, Blinkous. You can call me Blinky, if you like.” He mutters in reply. This is too much. There’s a teenager in his kitchen. A teenager who apparently knows Arthur and made him _toast_ of all things. 

What the hell was going on?

“Hey Jimbo!” Another young voice cuts across the kitchen as a second teenage boy trots into view. “Sun’s up, and the backyard’s still clear. Is Arthur awake yet?” This other boy is about the same age as the first, but decidedly more on the rounder side. He’s also carrying a hand painted wooden bat with the word _Daylight_ emblemized across it over his shoulder.

It takes all of Blinkous’s self-control to not break down then and there. This is it. He’s gone completely insane. Maybe the brute from last night had killed him and now he was trapped in some hellish alternate reality where there are teenagers in his kitchen. 

Blinkous is thankfully pulled from his train of thought before it completely de-rails by a hand gently nudging the back of his shoulder. Blinkous startles slightly and rapidly backs into the hall, allowing him to face both a now awake Arthur and the two teens. Arthur opens his mouth, most likely to apologize, but Blinkous beats him to it.

“YOU!”

The angry, sleep-roughened cry is accompanied by an accusatory finger pointed directly at Arthur’s face. Arthur and the teens both recoil in surprise, but Blinkous doesn’t bat an eye.

“You! Did you bring them here?” the outstretched arm sweeps to point at Jim and bat toting teen on the cry of ‘them’. Arthur opens his mouth again to reply, but Blinkous keeps going without waiting for a reply. “What are you thinking? There was a man trying to kill us with his bare hands yesterday! I had to chase him off with a _gun_! And you go and bring _children_ into this? How did you get into my house? I have a security system!” 

Blinkous’s tone is narrowing on hysterical at the end of his tirade, but before he can launch into another round of accusatory shouting, his stomach interrupts with a loud growl. Blinkous can feel his face flush in embarrassment, but the only reaction it gains from his uninvited guests is for Jim to wordlessly hold out the plate of toast again. 

The gesture causes Blinkous to deflate slightly, but he’s still visibly angry as he swipes a slice of toast off the top. “We,” he states lowly, pausing for a moment to take a bite of the toast, “ _are_ going to talk about this. One way or another.” 

“Uh, Mr. Blinky, sir? I can call you Blinky, right? My name’s Toby.” The boy with the bat speaks up nervously from behind Jim, waving his free hand a little just to make sure he has Blinkous’s attention. “I hear where you’re coming from. I really do. But you, uh, really don’t have to worry about Jimbo and I. We’ve been doing this for a while now. And Arthur never ‘dragged us into’ anything. Jim’s actually the one who does most of the dragging.” Toby nudges Jim in the side with his elbow playfully, causing the taller boy to shoot him a look. “Anyways, the point is we’ve been dealing with these Gumm-Gumm jerks for months. It’s nothing we haven’t handled before.”

Blinkous slowly closes his eyes, anger visibly morphing into horror on his face. “Oh god it’s worse than I thought.” He mumbles, “You’re _actually_ fighting the most dangerous gang in South California. Teenagers. Fighting a gang war.”

Jim grimaces slightly before pitching in. “Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a war, even if it can get pretty intense. I mean, there’s only what? Four of them left? Five? Most of them are in prison. Besides, if we weren’t fighting them, things would be much, much worse for everyone.”

Blinkous throws his hands up, sending crumbs from his half-eaten toast flying through the air. “Worse? How could it possibly get any worse?” He cries.

“They’re trying to break Gunmar out of prison. Along with the rest of them, if they can.”

Blinkous stares at them in shock and lowers his arms. “Then…then call the police! Four gangsters or one, it doesn’t change the fact that you’re minors with ‘a couple months training’ going up against full-grown men who have been doing this for years! Leave the fighting to the people whose job it is to fight.”

Jim scowls in response. “Well we would if we thought that, even for a moment, they’d _believe_ us! Do you really think we could just waltz into the police station and say, ‘Hey! Though a series of disjointed events that only we can affirm, we’ve learned that Gunmar’s dead son; the Arcadia Heights High School principle; the museum curator; and a short, foreign man are trying to break the Gumm-Gumm gang out of prison! You have to stop them!’? But nooo, I’m sure that’d go over just fine.”

Dead silence hangs in the air once Jim finishes his bitingly sarcastic rebuff. Arthur and Toby both look uncomfortable, while Blinkous looks more chagrined. The tension is thick while Blinkous rolls Jim’s words around in his head, mulling them over before his brow furls in confusion. 

“Wait, the Arcadia Hights High School principle? You mean Mr. Strickler? Mr. Strickler is working for the Gumm-Gumms?”

Jim fixes Blinkous with a disbelieving look. “Really. That’s what you get out of all that. Mr. Strickler working for the Gumm-Gumms is what sticks out to you the most.”

Blinkous winces apologetically and raises his hands in a placating gesture. “No! No, of course not. It’s just…I _know_ Mr. Strickler. He just, never seemed like the type to get involved in something like this.”

Now it’s everyone else’s turn to look surprised. “You know Mr. Strickler?” Toby gasps.

Blinkous fiddles nervously with the remainder of his toast. “Yes? We talk, on occasion. Sometimes he borrows books from my library.”

Jim opens his mouth, about to speak, when the chime of the front door bell rings through the house. With obviously practiced ease, the teens quickly switch objects. Jim is now armed with the wooden bat and Toby is left clutching the plate of toast. Jim starts to head for the door, bat at the ready, but Arthur stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “Stay,” Arthur says firmly, “I look. Watch Blinky.”

Blinkous huffs indignantly at the insinuation that he needs watching. Though, if he were less agitated, he’d probably admit that he does. He may have been a personal trainer once, but that didn’t mean he’d been a good one. So all of them watch in silence with varying degrees of nervousness as Arthur makes his way to the front door and pulls it open.

There’s no one there.

Arthur’s shoulders relax as he lets out the breath he’d been holding before turning to give his three companions a thumbs up. His movement inadvertently causes part of the door to come into view, revealing the corner of something small and white stuck to it.

“Hey Arthur, I think there’s something on the door!” Toby yells across the room, extending a hand to point out the little white corner. 

Arthur’s eyebrows raise in surprise as he dutifully turns around to face the open door. Sure enough, a small envelope is taped to the center of the door, the words ‘To Mr. Blinkous Galadrigal’ are written across it in cursive. Arthur carefully frees it from its tape prison before closing the door. That done, he faces his friends again and holds the envelope up. “For Blinky.”

Blinkous blinks in surprise before clearing his throat. “Well, bring it here and let’s see what it says.” Before Jim or Toby can stop him, Blinkous edges past them and into the sitting room. Arthur steps into the opposite end the room at the same time, and politely holds the letter out to Blinky once they meet in the middle.

The teens practically trip over themselves trying to see what’s happening as Blinkous tears open the envelope and removes the letter inside. He lets the envelope fall to the floor as he holds the letter close to his face, reading it over silently. Once he finishes, he moves it away, revealing his slightly disturbed expression. He casts a single, nervous glance at the people around him before starting to read it aloud.

 

_“Dear Mr. Galadrigal,_

_I apologize for contacting you on such short notice, but it has come to my attention that we haven’t seen each other in some time, and I absolutely must correct that._

_Should you find the time, I would be most pleased if you could join me today at_ The Crown Prince _around one this afternoon for a drink. We have much to discuss. ___

_Sincerely, Walter Strickler.”_

At the end of the letter, the four men share a vaguely horrified expression amongst themselves.

“This,” Jim says, “Might be a problem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the plot reveals itself to an extent and the AU shows us just just how different things are. This story is being written chapter-to-chapter so if the pacing feels weird, that would be why. Things should slow down a little now though.


	3. Alcohol and Strategy Do Not Mix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, this chapter gave me a bit of trouble but it's finally done and surprisingly not that bad. Enjoy

The metal sign of _The Crown Prince_ swings menacingly in the breeze above Blinkous’s head. The cocktail bar’s entrance is terribly deceiving, with its stained-glass windows and old wooden door, but Blinkous knows the moment he steps inside he’ll be in a chrome-plated, ill-lit nightmare. Unfortunately, this cleverly-disguised eyesore is the closest thing to a respectable drinking establishment within the next 50 miles.

Blinkous has never hated it more than he does this day. 

The hours leading to this moment had been some of the craziest and most off-the-wall he’s lived since college. After the reading of the ominous and disturbingly timed letter from Mr. Strickler, Jim had herded everyone into the dining room, insisting that they try to figure out what their next move would be. Of course, at the time, Blinkous still hadn’t been entirely convinced that Mr. Strickler wasn’t just being eccentrically creepy. In response, Jim and Toby saw fit to regale him with tales of every single time Strickler had tried to kill them so far. Once they were finished, Blinkous was all too ready to admit that Walter Strickler was, apparently, quite capable of attempting murder. In all fairness, after that series of _thrilling_ tales, Blinkous had expected them to tell him to just ignore the letter.

Instead, they actually wanted him to go.

“You can’t be serious.”

The boys across from Blinkous glance at each other quickly before returning their attention to him, twin grimaces stamped across their faces. “You _just_ told me all the ways he’s tried to kill you so far. Then told me all the ways this letter,” Blinkous raises his hand and places a finger pointedly on the letter in the middle of the table, “could be seen as threat to my safety, and you _still_ expect me to go?”

“Threaten doesn’t mean kill!” Toby points out with a nervous laugh. Jim pinches the bridge of his nose and visibly holds back a sigh before looking back up. “Chances are,” he begins, loudly enough that everyone at the table fixes their attention on him, “Strickler doesn’t even know you’ve actively been involved yet. This is probably just posturing. Worst case if he doesn’t know we’ve met already, he’ll try to turn you against us. Worst case if he _does_ know, depends on how much he likes you.”

Blinkous scoffs. “Well we aren’t the best of friends, if that’s what you’re asking. In fact, on a leisure level, I believe I know more about Arthur than I do of Strickler. And I’ve only known Arthur for a fraction of the time I’ve known Walter.”

Across the table, Toby frowns. “Well I guess we can say the chances of him going easy on you are on the low end, then.”

At that, Blinkous drops his head to the table with a groan, prompting Arthur to reach forward and pat his back awkwardly.

The rest of the conversation had gone much to the same tune, with fears and sometimes UN-reassuring re-assurances passed back and forth by all involved until they had the semblance of a plan. Well, more like the crumbling infrastructure of a plan that seemed to mostly be ‘Play Dumb and Don’t Die’. Though at the time, Blinkous had been certain he could work with it.

When faced with the real deal, however, it was another story. Standing here, in front of the bar, staring at his warped reflection in the stained glass and fisting his hands into the hem of his sports jacket, Blinkous suddenly realizes that that he is well and thoroughly fucked.

But god strike him down if he would ever allow Gunmar and his people that much more of a chance to get back on the streets because of something so simple as refusing to step into a bar.

With that thought rattling around in his head, Blinkous steels himself as well as he can before reaching for the door handle and stepping inside.

It’s just as horrible as he remembers it.

Minimal lighting, blue neon signs reflecting oddly off chrome countertops and wall décor, the bad kind of jazz piping through obvious speakers, and the Pièce De Résistance…

Walter Strickler.

The high school principle is seated casually at the far end of the bar, a glass tumbler of something dark and at least 50% alcohol held delicately by the rim in one hand. He glances over when he hears the door open and gives Blinkous a familiar predatory smile. 

Blinkous nearly has a heart attack then and there. He stumbles, briefly, before collecting himself and walking stiffly over to where Strickler is seated. The taller man motions silently to the bar stool next to him, one eyebrow arched in question as his smile turns to something more concerned. Blinkous accepts the offered seat with minimal hesitation and takes a moment to gather his wits. Strickler takes a small, courteous sip of his drink as he waits for Blinkous to settle. Once Blinkous feels as ready as he can be- given the circumstances- he turns to Strickler and opens his mouth to speak.

“What did you wan-,” “-I’m deeply sorry for your loss.”

Blinkous blinks dumbly at Strickler, brain grinding to a halt as he’s interrupted halfway through his sentence. The principle looks a little guilty, obviously having realized he’d inadvertently cut Blinkous off. When Blinkous doesn’t immediately say anything else, Strickler awkwardly launches into conversation.

“For the loss your library took, I mean. I heard about what happened the other day. I can’t imagine how shaken up you must be.”

“Uh.” Blinkous’s reply is as artful as it is intelligent.

“I hear they still haven’t caught the men responsible for the damages. Does that worry you? Oh, I’m so terribly sorry for calling you out here like this. How are you holding up?” Strickler fidgets with his glass, a seemingly genuine look of apology on his face.

Blinkous wants to buy it. He wants to believe without a shadow of a doubt that Strickler is just a concerned friend, but he knows better, now, and the thought makes him feel sick. 

“I’ve…been better. And yes,” The bartender walks up to them at this point and silently offers Blinkous a tumbler of something much lighter than Strickler’s drink, but probably just as alcoholic. Blinkous takes it and cradles it in his hands like something precious. “I am worried.”  
Strickler clicks his tongue and shakes his head in sympathy, looking contrite. “Of course, of course. How couldn’t you be, what with this Daylight gang banging down your very doorstep.”

Blinkous very nearly chokes on his drink, the alcohol burning his throat as he struggles to swallow it down. Strickler reaches out to him in alarm, but Blinkous bats his hand away gently, still coughing. After a moment, Blinkous clears his throat and fixes Strickler with a slightly watery gaze. “Daylight gang?” he rasps.

Strickler winces at the state of Blinkous’s voice. “Daylight gang, yes. Apparently they’re led by some old goat named _Vendel_ of all things.”

Blinkous clears his throat again with a small cough. “What makes you so sure someone from this… _Daylight gang_ was in my library?”

Strickler leans back slightly and waves his hand through the air absent-mindedly as Blinkous takes a second, more careful, sip of his drink. “Oh, I suppose someone recognized one of them. They’ve been distributing a general description around television. You know how these things go. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed.”

Blinkous raises his eyebrows. “I, uh, don’t watch much television. I’m more of a book person, you know.” He forces himself to throw in an awkward smile. Someone had seen Arthur leaving Oakwood and reported it to the police? That could be bad. He mentally files the information away to inform his acquaintances later.

Strickler either doesn’t notice Blinkous’s strained interactions or is playing along. He gives a polite laugh and takes a sip of his drink. “Of course, of course. But enough about gangs; how have you been? I haven’t had the pleasure of your company in some time.”

The rest of the conversation is weird, but nice. Strickler doesn’t steer the conversation back to the Daylight gang, and Blinkous finds himself beginning to have fun. Though that might have something to do with the second glass of pale liquor that finds its way into his hands. In the end, it’s Strickler who decides to leave first, insisting that he must get home to look over some paperwork.

“Who knew being a principle would require the same amount of paperwork that teaching did.” The taller man chuckles lightly at his own remark. Having paid for their drinks- Strickler insisting he pay half of Blinkous’s bill since he’d been the one to ask the bartender to bring Blinkous something when he arrived- the two men now stand on the bar’s front stoop. Blinkous chuckles haltingly in response. The dull buzz of alcohol has dimmed slightly, leaving him once again wary of Strickler’s presence. 

Seemingly able to detect Blinkous’s rising tention, Strickler flashes him a grin somehow even more predatory than the one he’d given Blinkous at the start of the evening. “Well, my friend, I must now bid you adieu. I hope you have a pleasant evening.” 

“Oh, uh, a good evening to you as well.” Blinkous manages to mumble, eyeing Strickler nervously as the taller man turns to walk to his car. Strickler doesn’t answer, so Blinkous heaves a relieved sigh and starts to turn away, but freezes when the sound of Strickler’s voice cuts through the air like a knife.

“Do remember to watch yourself, Mr. Galadrigal.” Blinkous slowly turns his head to look over his shoulder at the principle. Strickler is standing next to his car with the driver’s side door open and a dark, flat look on his face. “You never do know who may be watching _you_.”

If Blinkous were any paler at this point, he’d be white as a sheet. He lets out a high, strangled noise in response before taking off as fast as he can down the street.

Strickler watches him go quietly, fingers drumming rhythmically on the top edge of the car door. Once Blinkous is out of sight, he deflates slightly and swings himself into the driver’s seat. After buckling his seatbelt, he slams the door and jams the car key into the ignition. The engine roars to life underneath him as he throws the car into reverse and places both hands on the wheel.

“Imbecile.” 

The snarled word is left hanging in the air as Strickler backs out of the parking space and switches back to drive before taking off in the opposite direction Blinkous had gone. Afterwards, the street is silent.

Somewhere far away, in a dark, dank prison cell, a man smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, College has officially started, so expect more infrequent updates. I'll try to get at least one a week done though. Stay "Crispy". God I can't believe I typed that with my own two hands.


	4. An Average Night in Hell by Walter Strickler

Well that had gone absolutely terrible. 

Strickler lets his head fall forward onto the steering wheel with a thunk. The red glare of a traffic light leaks through the window shield and dyes the grey at his temples crimson. 

What on earth was he going to tell Bular?

Strickler groans audibly at the thought. Bular’s pride had already been sorely bruised the night before (in more ways than one), and now they’d been unsuccessful in deterring the only eyewitness to Bular’s existence from seeking out their enemies. Bular was going to _kill_ Strickler when he found out.

So maybe…he wouldn’t have to find out.

Overhead, the street light changes from red to green. Strickler quickly raises his head and presses down on the accelerator, turning the wheel to the left in an un-signaled turn as he does. It wasn’t like there was anyone else on the road to signal, Arcadia seemed to become deserted after 3pm. 

Strickler makes a few more stops and turns in silence, glancing into the rear-view mirror on occasion to make sure he’s not being followed. He’s not. Seemingly satisfied, he makes one last turn into the employee parking lot behind the History Museum. 

The ignition turns off with a turn of his key and Strickler sits in the cab for a moment in silence. In his head, he carefully orchestrates a believable fabrication of the last hour’s events. Carefully crafted fable in mind, Strickler unbuckles his seat belt and pops open the car door. Once he’s securely on his feet outside the vehicle, he kicks the door closed behind him while fishing an ID card out of his pocket.

The ID card is the same size as a credit card. Pure white plastic with an image of a heavily-stylized eye stares up at Strickler mockingly. Light from the bulb above the museum staff entrance paints the white plastic an unsettling blue, making it seem almost alive. Strickler shudders faintly and quickly turns to march to the staff door.

The staff door is pretty average. There is no handle on this side, only a buzzer next to the frame. Strickler presses a pointer finger onto the buzzer with a little more force than strictly necessary and holds it there for a few seconds. Distantly, the sound of annoyed grumbling and the crash of something metallic can be heard behind the door. A small, metal window on the door slides open just as Strickler removes his finger from the buzzer. A disapproving brown eye appears in the window and gives Strickler quick once-over. Before Strickler can hold up his ID card, the door swings outward with the click of a lock. 

The man standing in the open doorway barely comes up to Strickler’s chest. The ugly green coat the man is wearing is so large on him that he has to wear it with the sleeves rolled almost to the coat’s elbows. The man glares at Strickler for a moment before stepping aside and motioning to the dark museum behind him with an unintelligible grumble.

Strickler takes the hint and cautiously inches around the short man, one eyebrow raised pensively. The man, however, doesn’t give him a second glance. Instead, he shoves the door closed and flips the deadbolt back in place before shuffling off into the dark.

Strickler watches him go for a moment before straitening his lapels and marching down the lit portion of the storeroom. Tall wooden crates form a makeshift hallway that he winds through with practiced ease. Each crate is many times heavier than he could ever dream of lifting, filled as they are with the cobblestones of some bridge called Killaheed.

Not that such a thing was remotely of interest or importance whatsoever.

Though it _was_ odd how the pieces for this particular bridge had started arriving around the same time Bular finally gathered the manpower to break his father out of a prison by the same name.

But that’s a mystery for another time.

Strickler makes a smooth turn between two musty crates and emerges on the other side before a simple door. The door is marked by a single plaque with the word ‘OFFICE’ stamped into it, as well as a scribble of permanent marker beneath it that says ‘OF DOOM’.

Strickler rolls his eyes in exasperation before raising his hand to knock. 

He gets two solid knocks in before a voice invites him to ‘Just open the damn door, Strickler.’

Strickler sighs softly before swinging the door open and stepping inside. The cramped office is a mess. The lone desk, as well as several of the surrounding walls, are covered with floorplans and other documents. The bookshelf behind the desk is piled with drink containers from varying fast-food establishments, ranging from days to weeks old, as most of the papers that would be there are decorating the walls. And in the middle of it all, greasy hair tied back in a ponytail and staring in frustration at the sea of papers on the desk, is Bular.

Bular looks up darkly as Strickler picks his way over to the desk, trying not to step on any papers on his way over. As Strickler reaches the front of the desk, he gives the chairs at his side a wary glance before deciding to stand instead of risking his trousers by sitting. Bular doesn’t seem to care, opting to take a moment to lean back and scrub his face with the heels of his hands instead. 

“Well?” The sharp tone of the word cuts across the air, startling Strickler. “Is it done?”

Strickler bristles slightly before squaring his shoulders and answering. “Of course, everything went according to plan.” The spoken part of the lie, at least, is easy to recite. 

Bular nods, pulling his hands away from his face as he does. “Good. I want someone to keep an eye on him regardless. We can’t risk exposure, at any cost.”

Strickler forces back a wince. “I -Bular I assure you that such a thing is entirely unnecessary…”

Bular holds up a hand to stop Strickler. “Unnecessary? Perhaps, but as I said,” Bular’s gold eyes meet Strickler’s, fixing him with a cold gaze, “we can’t risk _anything_.”

Strickler’s mouth snaps shut. He takes a moment to look suitably chagrined before speaking again.

“Well, if you insist. I would offer myself to-,”

“No.”

Strickler sputters to a halt, once again interrupted by Bular. “Ask Fagwa to put one of his men on it. You’re already keeping an eye on those brats at the school, and we can’t risk stretching you too thin and blowing your cover.”

Strickler fumes quietly. Bular is right, they can’t risk him loosing what little advantage they have over their enemies. But Fagwa’s men would see that Strickler had failed his task.

Good thing Fagwa’s men were notoriously easy to bribe.

“Is that understood, Mr. Strickler?” Bular’s glare is a burning challenge, daring the principle to protest.

Strickler doesn’t rise to the bait. “Perfectly.” He grinds out.

Bular’s face breaks into a wide, cold grin. “Excellent. Now get out of my office.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so college is kicking me in the teeth and I'm sort of loosing interest in this story so I can't guarantee more chapters but I'll try. Thank you for sticking with me this far


	5. One (1) Missed Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not?? Dead?? Holy shit. Have an update.

###### 

Blinkous is running for his life. Though the veiled threat that had been leveled at him probably shouldn’t have been that terrifying, Blinkous has more than enough reason to be wound up at this point. A small threat it may have been, but he still finds himself eager to put as much distance between himself and Mr. Strickler as possible.

Irrational terror is also the reason it takes Blinkous a whole three minutes to realize he’d _drove here, for god’s sake_ and his car is now approximately two or three blocks back. The realization has Blinkous staggering to a halt, huffing and puffing as he mentally curses his own sliding scale of cowardice.

“You faced down a man twice your size with a rusty pistol without flinching (too badly), yet the moment your long-time acquaintance makes a vague threat you run like the seven rings of hell are on your heels. _amazing_ priorities there, Blinkous.”

The short, sweaty man turns his face to the sky as if begging god to strike him dead on the spot. Before he can bother turning around to make a walk of shame back to his parked vehicle, the cell phone in his pocket gives a firm buzz. The phone is an older model he’d had before upgrading to the one that had been viciously smashed by Bular, but it works just as well. Blinkous quickly fishes it out and unlocks the screen to check his messages.

The first few are all from various patrons of his library expressing their horror and sorrow at the temporary loss of said library. These messages are dismissed but not marked as read, he’ll look at them later. The next is from the police, asking for a good date to collect a follow-up statement. The most recent message, however, is the one that makes his blood run cold.

It’s an alert from the local news station, showcasing a mugshot of a much younger, angrier Arthur. The name _Arrghaumont Johann_ is printed neatly across the bottom of the image, while the rest of the alert asks civilians to contact the authorities if they see the man pictured.

“Oh no.”

Blinkous hadn’t thought it possible to have this many adrenaline rushes in such short succession; but that doesn’t change the face that the sight of his friend’s face on a proverbial wanted poster has him back beside his car in record time. The drive home is a tense one, the stickiness of dried sweat serving only to make it more uncomfortable. Privately, Blinkous hopes beyond hope that those strange teenagers and Arthur had stayed in his house instead of disappearing into the ether.

\---

Blinkous bursts from his car the moment he has it parked and rushes to the door. He fumbles his keys while searching for the correct one on the ring, and cusses colorfully as they clatter to the ground at his feet.

Absorbed as he is in bending down to snatch the keyring from the ground, Blinkous doesn’t hear the sound of approaching footsteps from inside his house until the door opens in front of his face.

The very man Blinkous is terrified for stands in the doorway, giving him a worried look.

They stare at each other for a heartbeat before it occurs to Blinkous that Arthur is currently standing in plain view of the rest of the neighborhood. With a terrified squeak, Blinkous darts forward, intending to shove Arthur back and close the door.

Of course, instead of Blinkous valiantly moving his friend out of potential disaster’s way, it’s Arthur’s arms that wrap around him and lift him bodily from the floor. Arthur swings Blinkous around, grip changing mid-turn so Blinky is cradled like a child in the larger man’s arms and they both face away from the door. Said door is then roughly kicked closed, the frame rattling dangerously from the force of it. Blinkous, too stunned by the sudden turn of events to form a prompt reprimand, instead allows Arthur to carry him to the dining room in silence.

Both Jim and Toby are still present and on their feet when Arthur strides purposefully into the dining room with a bemused Blinky in his arms. Both teens had obviously jumped to attention at the slamming of the door, as evidenced by their slid-back chairs and tense expressions. Without acknowledging the teens at all, Arthur gently sets Blinkous down in a chair, using one hand to smooth down Blinky’s ruffled hair while the other hovers uncertainly around his shoulder and chest area.

“Blinky okay? Not hurt?” Arthur’s expression is pinched, his green eyes roving Blinkous’s form as he searches for any sign of damage. The tremulous query causes the fragmented oddities of the last two minutes to slot perfectly into place in Blinkous’s mind. He opens his mouth and takes a breath, prepared to re-assure his friend with an _” I’m fine.”_ or perhaps a _”Of course not.”_ , but instead...

“You thought he’d really hurt me.” The even-toned words cause Arthur to recoil slightly, his eyes darting to the side. “You _expected_ him to hurt me.”

There’s silence in the dining room, broken only by the shuffle of sneakers and the sound of breathing.

Blinky sighs, rubbing a hand down the side of his face. “I’m…I’m not hurt Arthur. I’m fine. Walter didn’t do anything. He tried to pin the blame on you and that was all. You told me in advance that there was a chance of him attempting to cause me bodily harm, and I should be thanking you for your diligence in preparing for the possibility.”

“Mr. Blinky-.” Blinkous raises a hand, cutting off whatever Jim might have begun to say. “I said it’s fine, Jim. We’ll have a proper conversation about this later. Right now, we have a bigger problem.”

Things are silent again as Blinkous pulls his phone out of his pocket and brings up the police alert about Arthur. He solemnly sets the device screen-up on the table in view of both the teens and the man whose face is plastered on the screen.

“Someone’s seen Arthur. The police are looking for him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are heating up a little. With s2 out I finally sort of have an idea of were to go with this but uh. Again no guarantees. Peace.


	6. In Which Some Things are Learned but Very Little is Solved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow an update about a week after the last one? Must be some kind of witchcraft.
> 
> also uhh small mention of suicide this chapter but it's non-graphic. also implied child abuse/neglect but not by any named characters.

###### 

Surprisingly, there is no subsequent freak out. Jim, Toby and Arthur all stare at the phone for a moment with mixed expressions of weariness before Jim lets out a sigh. “Yeah, okay that’s a problem.”

“But,” Jim continues, picking up the phone and dismissing the alert, “We can do exactly nothing about it right now. It’s been a hell of a day, we should all get some rest.”

The next thirty minutes goes by surprisingly fast. The two teens collect their bat and exit through the back yard, promising to return tomorrow after school hours with a “friend” to retrieve Arthur. Alas, Arthur must spend another night crashing at Blinky’s house, lest he be noticed leaving said house.

Surprisingly, Blinkous is not as upset about this as he feels he should be. Instead, as the sky darkens behind the living room curtains, he putters about his kitchen, trying to find something that could be made into a decent meal. There isn’t anything, only a long, long list of foods he was supposed to have bought today, instead of…whatever today turned out to be. “Trainwreck” seemed like putting it too lightly.

Ultimately, Blinkous puts in an order for pizza. Arthur stays well away from the door as the delivery boy arrives with a large half-cheese-half-veggie mess. The two of them sit on the living room rug and eat in silence, only broken by soft chatter from the television that neither of them are watching.

Blinky offers Arthur the guest room. Arthur seems surprised, but accepts.

Due to the nature of on-suite bathrooms, Blinkous does not see Arthur again after retreating to his own room. For some reason, the fact makes something thick and heavy and unpleasant settle in his gut. He dismisses it as the pizza and falls asleep.

Across the hall, Arthur’s light stays on for another two hours before clicking off, plunging the house into the suburban version of darkness.

\---

Blinkous rolls out of bed at 11am, and does not emerge from his room until noon. When he does, he is showered, shaved, and dressed in an off-green turtleneck sweater instead of his usual blue button down.

Arthur’s presence in his kitchen is not nearly as startling as it had been the day before.

Arthur offers him a tentative, “G’morning.” and a wave as he struggles to scramble the last of the carton of eggs Blinky had in the fridge. It’s a little late for eggs, but Blinkous supposes it’s better than leftover pizza. He returns Arthur’s sentiment and receives a small smile for his efforts. He can’t help but smile back.

They spend the rest of the afternoon reading. Despite the abysmal state of his kitchen, Blinkous can’t bring himself to leave Arthur here alone. As the hour grows later, Blinky starts to absently wonder when exactly the local high school lets out just a series of knocks echo from the back door.

Blinkous manages to reach the door before Arthur through sheer virtue of having been sitting closer. A peek through the blinds reveals Jim and Toby, as expected, along with an older teen in a varsity jacket and bleach-blonde hair. He looks awfully familiar, but Blinky can’t quite place him.

A flip of the deadbolt and a turn of the knob later, all three teens are safely inside. Jim and Toby immediately latch on to Arthur, asking if anything had happened overnight. The answer is a resounding no.

Finally, the two see fit to introduce Blinkous to their friend.

“Mr. Blinky, this is Draal. Draal, meet Mr. Blinky. He’s been helping us out.” The name Draal doesn’t ring any bells for Blinkous, sadly, but Draal’s face twists oddly as he shakes Blinky’s hand.

“Uh. ‘Mr. Blinky’ wouldn’t happen to actually be ‘Mr. Galadrigal’ would it?”

Oh, well, that’s something. “Why yes, actually. Do I know you from somewhere?” Blinky asks.

Draal’s expression falls into a grimace. “Yeah. You helped my godfather get custody of me over my mother after my dad…died. You and Dad were friends, I think. Heard your name around the house a few times while he was still around.”

Blinky can feel the blood drain from his face slightly. “You’re not…are you Draal _Anderson_? _Kade’s_ son?”

“Yeah. That’s me.” Draal shrugs jerkily, more of an awkward shoulder raise really, but Blinky isn’t paying attention. Kade. Kade’s son. If Kade’s son was involved in this…

What did that mean for Kade’s case?

Blinky hadn’t heard anything about Kade Anderson in years. The ex-police chief of Arcadia had been one of Blinkous’s closest friends, right up until he was found at the bottom of the canal under overpass 6. Concerned friends and family, Blinkous among them, had tried to push for an investigation into what the court wanted to dismiss as simple suicide. Everyone knew how involved Kade had been with the apprehension of the Gumm-Gumms, but the odds weren’t in their favor. The case was ultimately ruled as “mishandling of human resources and failure to perform proper psyche evaluations”. The police department was fined and Blinkous found himself dragged out of retirement to make sure Kade’s fifteen-year-old son didn’t end up back in his mother’s custody.

There are a dozen questions at the end of Blinkous’s tongue, but he holds them all. This is neither the time nor the place.

“I…yes. Kade and I were good friends. Though I’m afraid by the time we were out of college, our interactions were mostly limited to the courtroom.” Another small pause. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“S’okay. Happened a long time ago.” A somewhat mischievous glint lights in Draal’s eye after his waving of the condolences, “So. You’re part of the team now, huh? These dorks fill you in on things yet?” His fond use of “dorks” is punctuated by reaching out and placing Jim in a headlock. The scrawny boy doesn’t even give a cursory struggle, instead heaving an exasperated sigh.

“…More or less. Mostly they’ve been regaling me with tales of Walter Strickler and the many, many ways he’s tried to kill them.” Blinkous says, fixing Jim with a look. Jim at least has the grace to look chagrined.

“Ah yes,” says Draal, tilting his upper body back and clapping his free hand against his chest, “Stricklander. The fiend. How these two hate him. Makes me glad I’m done with high school. Gotta be weird with one of your teachers trying to kill you.”

“Ha ha. Very funny Draal.” Jim gives a sharp twist, ducking out of the loose choke hold and stepping to the side. “We should get going, Vendel’s probably wondering where we are.”

Blinkous’s focus hones in on Jim as the name “Vendel” is dropped. Walt had said that name the day before hadn’t he?

“Wait,” Blinky holds up a hand to stop Jim as he starts to head back to the door, “Who exactly is Vendel?”

“He’s my godfather.” Draal calls over his shoulder, already halfway out the door, “Duh. Now c’mon, move your asses, the car’s in your back alley and we’re losing daylight.”

Blinkous finds he has nothing to say as he’s ushered through his back yard and into the alley behind it, where a beaten up grey minivan sits forlornly amongst leaf detritus and assorted paper ads. 

“Let’s go.” Draal says, pulling a key ring from his pocket and hopping inside the driver’s side door. The others pile in behind him, and with a coughing roar, the minivan lurches into motion.

None of them notice the man dressed in green watching them go.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this fic, I'd really appreciate if you'd tell me, even if it's just by leaving kudos. I'm nervous about this being to niche so I need to know if people want me to publish more. (The second chapter is already getting written regardless, even if it's for my own amusement.)


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